


Doomed

by Oceanwhirl



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Anal Fingering, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Night Stands, Song Lyrics, goth!Otabek, metal!Yuri, not a songfic, vaguely happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 07:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17341541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oceanwhirl/pseuds/Oceanwhirl
Summary: Something happens, something invisible, untouchable, but it’s there, it’s real. His blood rushes in his ears, almost drowning out the music, but not entirely.“The shade of your eyesIt’s a curse, it’s a curse.Don’t look at me.Don’t look at me, it hurts.”In which Yuri is in pain and Otabek is ridiculously gorgeous ;D





	Doomed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sprosslee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sprosslee/gifts).



> So here's the band AU I've worked on lately, my belated Christmas present for my dearest [Sprosslee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sprosslee/pseuds/sprosslee) <3<3<3  
> Check out looks for [Otabek](https://twitter.com/KaiyouKara/status/1061402216890843139), [Yuri](https://twitter.com/KaiyouKara/status/1080123683962789889), [Kaligazh and Belek](https://twitter.com/KaiyouKara/status/1080457024595480576)  
> I listened to the following songs while I wrote this, maybe you want to skip the first two if you're not into metal, the rest is more atmospheric ^^  
> [Spotify Playlist (I hope this works)](https://open.spotify.com/user/spotifyape03/playlist/77iPtfqDPBcBCurhYUO7ok?si=z7rDTzjfQbi9NuKrPAGrVg)
> 
> or check out the songs individually, because not all of them are on yt:
> 
>  
> 
> [Dying In Silence](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aq91lBOGnqE)
> 
>  
> 
> [Black Tears](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sxFoD82dnM4)
> 
>  
> 
> [High Hopes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7jMlFXouPk8)
> 
>  
> 
> [Doomed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cKXLTjmtqkY)
> 
>  
> 
> [On The Road](https://theforcedoscillations.bandcamp.com/track/on-the-road)
> 
>  
> 
> [Synapse](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_8P0Ui5u1ko)
> 
>  
> 
> [Hollow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7SnjVHtkjrc)
> 
>  
> 
> [Alone](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ai1fkELk5lg)
> 
>  
> 
> [Free](https://theforcedoscillations.bandcamp.com/track/free-non-russian-version)
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you enjoy this project!!

Vladimir pulls out with a groan. Without a word he rolls over to grab the cigarettes from the bedside cabinet, offering Yuri one after he lights his own.

Yuri accepts wordlessly, then reaches for his phone. The light in the top right corner has lit up even before Vladimir flipped Yuri onto his stomach.

It’s a text from Mila.

“Gotta go,” Yuri mumbles around the filter, then gets up and into his clothes that he carelessly dropped to the floor earlier. He doesn’t even bother to wipe the cum from between his ass cheeks before pulling up his boxers. Vladimir leaves him feeling sticky, no matter how much he wipes. 

There’s no tissue for the heart.

 

When Mila arrives later that night Yuri’s not surprised about her looks. She’s dressed like Xena gone hooking, all with corset and knee high boots. It suits her but Yuri still tells her she looks like a whore.

“Takes one to know one.” She flops down on the mattress, takes a swing from the bottle of vodka that Yuri didn’t make the effort to screw the cap back on. Her crimson lipstick leaves traces on the bottle neck. They’re not much unlike the traces left on Yuri’s own neck, besides the ink that adorns him. Vladimir bites.

“You gotta dump Vova, like, seriously,” she shares her opinion that Yuri didn’t ask for. He never asks for it, and that makes the fact that he knows she’s right all the more bitter.

With a shrug he kicks the pile of clothes on the floor aside so he can rummage through the shirts in his closet.

_ On bleeding knees you're waiting for the answers _

_ (with gazing eyes you're hoping for a sign) _

_ Annihilation of your spirits _

_ Dreams die in silence, _ the speakers blast, as if they want to let Mila know that it doesn’t fucking matter.

“You’re pretty, Yura, you don’t have to waste yourself on that asshole. We’ll find you someone else.”

He turns, smirking, still only in black skinny jeans and leopard print socks. “Because you’re so good at finding someone to fuck,” he huffs. Even if he lost all his pride, even  _ if _ he asked for someone’s help then he’d certainly not ask Miss Has-failed-at-dating-for-two-fucking-years. No one in the world is as bad at dating as Mila, and her pout proves she’s well aware of it. “Or, to be fucked by, for that matter,” he adds and turns back to his shirts.

_ Dreams die in silence and piece by piece you go with them _

_ Forsaken, unseen. Forsaken and unseen. _

He picks the white Heaven Shall Burn shirt with the cut-off sleeves for obvious reasons. And because he knows it will piss people off if he shows up at a goth party in a white shirt.

 

The venue is less a venue than more a moist, moldy hole in the ground. Yuri makes sure he kills the germs he breathes in with more than enough vodka. 

Mila dropped the Vladimir issue but Yuri can’t seem to stop wrecking his brain over it. He knows he’s fucked - pun intended - and he knows he has to stop systematically destroying himself. Since this thing they have started his alcohol consumption rivals that of his mother before the bitch left him behind when he was eight. 

_ There is no substitute for your lost dignity _ , it goes in his head. He takes a gulp from his glass, but the booze hardly numbs the thoughts, hardly fills the void these days. The only good thing is his weight loss, although even Lilia commented on how she’ll keep an eye on him, Lilia of all people! 

At least Vova likes it, Yuri thinks grimly. Vova likes to scratch his nails over Yuri’s ribs, push his thumbs into the thin skin under Yuri’s hip bones until it hurts, and then hurts longer when the bruises turn from blue to yellow. He brings out colors on Yuri’s brightly tattooed skin that he has never known, coloring him in spit and sweat and then cum. He fucks Yuri deep and hard and fills him good but Yuri has never felt so empty. How often did he wake up just to stare at the empty bottles littering the floor and think that he belongs with them? 

_ Sometimes life is more than pain to me _ .

He sparkles when the light falls onto him, but even that happens rarely these days. The only one who pretends not to notice is Mila, or maybe she doesn’t give a shit. She’s not afraid to grab his sticky hands and drag him outside where he can shine. 

And, oh, he does shine, all the sharp edges of what is left of him reflecting the light of the sordid club. Yuri can feel their eyes on him. He throws his head back, the glass against his lips. The skin of his neck glows as he swallows. The sleeves are cut off so wide his ribs are visibly shifting as he leans against the bar to order another glass. The cold down here turns his nipples into cherry stones, making the bartender look at his chest and only then at his face. Yuri’s smile earns him a free drink, like it earned him Vladimir eight months ago.

The first band sucks, and they probably know it themselves. Mila shrugs, like she didn’t pay eight hundred roubles for both their tickets.

The second band is not quite as bad but Yuri still doesn’t like them, because he’s not here to think well of the bands. He’s here to have another excuse to get wasted and he’s on a good way. 

“ _ I want to die _ !” the singer croaks into the microphone and at least on that Yuri can agree.

“ _ My God my tourniquet _

_ Return to me salvation _

_ My wounds cry for the grave _

_ My soul cries for deliverance.” _

Yuri wants to throw up but not from the booze. “Why the fuck did you take me here,” he interrogates Mila. Mila who smirks. “This isn’t a concert, that’s fucking mayhem!”

“Oh, come on!” Mila grins wider. “They aren’t that bad. A little dramatic, but at least the keyboarder chick is cute.”

It’s true, Yuri would fuck her, or maybe not because he doesn’t fuck keyboarders. “Not cute enough,” he judges.

The third band takes longer to set up. At this point Yuri’s head feels light from drinking and he is annoyed. His childish complaints bounce off Mila as if she’s made of rubber.

“What do they need so many instruments for? I bet none of them can play them anyway. Is that a fucking Fender? What a waste of wood on those idiots.” He takes a sip from his umpteenth glass. “And what’s with that name?  _ Samarkand Overture _ ,” he reads from the banner in the back of the small stage, his eyes narrowing to what he knows gives him the look of a tiger on the hunt.

“The fuck if I know,” Mila murmurs, just as the music from the speakers dies mid-song (Pink Floyd’s  _ High Hopes _ , whoever the fuck thought that would be appropriate for the next ridiculous vampire ensemble in frilly blouses). “Oh, look!”

Yuri sees it, too.  _ Her _ , that is. She walks over to the guitar, draws the belt over her shoulder and kicks in the effects unit with her gorgeous New Rock boots. The guitar starts whining, half from the string she pulls, half from the feedback as she tilts her pretty head left and right with a beat only she can hear. Black, hip-long hair swings back and forth and she’s so beautiful Yuri can’t look away. The macbook on top of the massive keyboard comes on with low synthesizer sounds. The guy behind it is just as good looking as the guitarist. Yuri can’t stop himself from suspecting those guys have been casted for their looks only, especially when the bassist comes on stage. He takes the center position, his hands gently cradling the sunburst corpus. He leans forward with half lidded eyes as the synthesizer starts an impelling hi-hat beat with a crisp snare drum. The guitar weeps delayed quavers.

“First song is called  _ Doomed _ ,” he breathes into the microphone. At the same time the fingers of his left hand dance across the strings and Yuri stares with his mouth open.

The song reaches deep inside him. He can’t think of an explanation, maybe there is none. He can only stand there, frozen to the ground, unable to suppress the goosebumps that make the hairs on his arms stand up. The music is what he could have expected when he saw the equip, but it’s different, in the way an angel is different from a human without wings and God’s glory. Yuri stares at the bassist with his disheveled black undercut, he black shirt tight across the broad chest, the golden nose ring glittering in the lights. His fingers move thick and deft on the Fender’s neck. The bassist is not only good with his instrument, though. When he starts singing the breath catches in Yuri’s throat. His voice is velvet, dark and soft and honest. Everything about him seems to be perfect, his dark almond eyes and caramel tan skin the cherry on the top. 

Yuri stands and stares, frozen in place. He's aware he grips his glass too tightly but he can't help it. He needs to hold onto something, anything, in order not to lose his fucking mind. They're too beautiful.  _ He's _ too beautiful. And not only visually. Looking at this, listening to this, the entire experience hurts deep, deep inside him. It stirs the pain and anger in his chest until it feels like the darkness is about to leak from his pores and makes him float.

And  _ he _ sings, every word pain under Yuri’s skin. He sings a little too low, subtle almost, except when he sounds almost desperate, hoarse. Yuri wants to curl into himself and cry but he can’t look away.

When the first song ends there’s no applause.

“Thank you,” the bassist murmurs into the Shure. Somehow it makes the audience wake up and the venue erupts into shocked clapping.

The next song has a ridiculously long intro; for almost two minutes that feel like forever the thick tan fingers climb up and down the mahogany neck of the Fender, the girl playing fragile tones like from a music box, the mac a halting drum rhythm with a soft ride cymbal. After one verse of murmured lyrics the song ends and the venue claps excitedly.

Mila returns from the bar with two glasses of vodka - Yuri didn’t even notice she left his side.

The next song is way more electronic. The guy at the mac bites his lower lip adjusting the keyboard.

“This is called  _ Synapse _ ,” the bassist breathes into the mic, then retracts into the dark at the back of the stage. The guitarist tilts her head a little as she leans into her mic and starts singing, with a distinct bitterness and finality in her voice. 

“ _ A single moment was enough to create this: _

_ A retinal distraction when a scatter of light _

_ Hits and forms an image _

_ Perfection is the harshest term _ .”

She’s beautiful, her fingers drawing the strings gently and precisely. But Yuri looks over at the back of the stage and is met by eyes as dark as the night sky. Something happens, something invisible, untouchable, but it’s there, it’s real. His blood rushes in his ears, almost drowning out the music, but not entirely.

“ _ The shade of your eyes _

_ It’s a curse, it’s a curse. _

_ Don’t look at me. _

_ Don’t look at me, it hurts. _ ”

His breath stutters. He turns to Mila, to check if she’s still there. She is, but she doesn’t look back at him.

_ He _ does though and Yuri feels exposed. It’s as if he can see all the dirt that makes up Yuri, as if he can make out all the stains and bruises that Vova left on him, see his prominent ribs, his nipples hard and pink under the thin fabric that reads My Heart Is My Compass as if he still had one. He didn’t look away and it scares Yuri who always acts so tough but really only wants to not be judged. It scares Yuri because he doesn’t judge. He just looks at him, intensely and Yuri looks back at him with a feeling he has never known before.

“ _ It's too late for rational sense, the neurons have fired _ .”

He sings the next song.  _ Hollow _ . At the front of the stage pink and blue lights catch on the thick strings as he strums them with a dark green pick.

The next song is called  _ Alone _ . The one after that  _ Free _ . He counts in in Russian.

The drums are fast and Yuri shakes that feeling of lethargy and feels like dancing, goth dancing: two steps forward, two steps back, hands balled into fists at his side and his shoulders and heart tense. The song ends loud and on a note that leaves Yuri hungry for more, unsatisfied, but there’s nothing left. It ends and the bassist thanks the audience in his calm, dark, wonderful voice, then they leave. The abandoned guitar weeps from feedback, the sound growing louder, just like the unfilled space in Yuri’s heart.

They don’t stay to watch the next band.

Outside they squat with cigarettes, at a loss of words until halfway through the heavily perfumed Java Mila says: “I’m gonna buy their album when it comes out. I’m never gonna listen to anything else. I want you to make sure they play at my fucking funeral.”

“Consider it done,” Yuri breathes out with the smoke.

They fall silent and smoke a second one not even feeling the cold.

“Hey,” a female voice says from the side, “you know where to grab a bite that late?”

It’s the guitarist.

Yuri and Mila shoot up like sunflowers in time lapse. It’s either that causing the swindle in his head or the fact that she’s even more beautiful up close.

“Sure,” Mila says, sounding like she just bit onto a lemon. “There’s a diner just around the corner, you just go down here on the left for about five hundred meters, or six hundred, or eight hundred, then turn left at the corner, then go ahead for another kilometer or so and then-”

“Okay, okay, slow down,” she interrupts and smiles. It makes her look less like a fairytale creature and more like an actual human. “Maybe, if you don’t mind, you could show us the way? We’re not from here and the soundcheck was shit so we didn’t have dinner. Or lunch…” She looks at Yuri. Her eyes are a pale grey. “So, if it’s okay for you…”

“Sure,” Yuri hears himself say. He drags on his cigarette too hard and the smoke scorches down his throat.

“Cool, awesome!” she exclaims with a wide grin. “I’m Kaligazh.”

“Mila,” says Mila.

“Yuri,” says Yuri. 

They both leave out the patronymics, because Kaligazh left hers out, too. It’s oddly intimate, and Yuri thinks about it as she leads them around the building. Back there are her two band mates loading their instruments into a VW Bulli. Yuri’s throat tightens as he spots the bassist, now wearing a leather jacket over his black shirt from the gig. His ass looks fabulous in the ripped skinny jeans as he bends over to place the keyboard stand into the van.

“I found us some guides,” Kaligazh chants. “Look, Otabek, I think you’ll appreciate it.”

The bassist turns, then stands still, like time froze. His eyes are on Yuri, his face perfectly emotionless, but something prickles in the cold air and on Yuri’s skin.

There’s something, something scary, something that makes Yuri’s heart beat hard and painful.

“Awesome,” the keyboarder says, emerging from the Bulli and breaking the tension by doing so. “I’m fucking starving, you guys are lifesavers.”

The ride over to the ratty diner is awkward at best. Kaligazh is driving with Mila in the passenger seat to give her directions. The keyboarder Belek, who's Kaligazh's boyfriend and Otabek's cousin, Yuri and Otabek are in the wide back seat, surrounded by band equipment. Yuri, in the middle, scrutinizes the stickers on the battered case of the Korg keyboard. He spots stickers of various bands he knows, Depeche Mode, New Order and Sisters of Mercy, as well as some he's never heard of, The Forced Oscillations, Whispering Sons or Linea Aspera for example. Belek on his left is analyzing the gig in what seems to be a monologue, because Otabek on Yuri’s right is silent as a grave. It’s pretty obvious that his on-stage persona is really no persona at all. He’s motionless and only agrees with a “Hm” when Belek mentions that Kaligazh’s microphone was not loud enough during  _ Synapse _ , but he remains quiet apart from that. 

His presence is overwhelming though, giving Yuri a hard time not freaking out or staring at him in the darkness of the back seat. He’s very much there, close, a lot closer than Yuri’s comfortable with. He’s warm and dark and he smells like sandalwood and decaying rose petals, sweet and intoxicating. He sucks in Yuri’s cold, his calm and his sanity. With every second they sit there, their knees and shoulders almost touching, but only  _ almost _ , it becomes harder for Yuri not to justify himself. He stares at the stickers - Lacrimas Profundere, The Cure, Biokonstrutor - and wishes, hopes, prays that Otabek doesn’t see the stains on his skin, the bruises, Vladimir’s fingerprints. Doesn’t smell the vodka and the cigarettes, the spit and cum and tears that make Yuri sticky and slimy and so fucking disgusting. The breath catches in his throat, like a badly bitten back sob, and Otabek throws him a glance, intense and very dark, just like back at the venue.  _ Don’t look at me. It hurts _ . It strips Yuri of his body until he’s only his soul, small and ashamed.

“I like your shirt,” Otabek murmurs, voice velvet. The way his lips move when he speaks is beautiful.

The needle of the compass shakily points towards east.

 

The diner is overheated and the air smells of fried chicken and stale coffee. They sit crammed at a small table by the window, Mila and Yuri on one side, Belek and Otabek on the other, Kaligazh on one additional chair at the end of the table. Yuri makes sure he doesn’t sit too close to Mila, to avoid people thinking they are a couple. Sometimes, as they eat lukewarm pancakes and soggy chicken wings, Otabek throws him a glance across the table, a  _ weird _ glance, and Yuri really doesn't want to come off heterosexual, just in case. When he crosses his legs he accidentally kicks against Otabek’s steel capped boots, not hard, but enough for them both to look up. There’s it again, this intense stare that makes Yuri smolder under his skin. He knows it’s a displacement act when he sucks sour cream from his fingers, not able to look away. Ring finger, middle finger, index finger, thumb. Otabek stares and Yuri stares back. 

They haven’t talked much tonight, much less to each other. Yuri can’t seem to get his brain working. Everytime he comes up with something to say that’s not embarrassing, or childish, or lame, and looks up the breath catches in his throat. “How long have you guys been on the road”, “I like your Fender, it sounds almost as good as the Epiphone Thunderbird but looks not as fucking stupid” and “I didn’t think Kaligazh’s microphone was too low, it was subtle and added to the mood of the song”, all that is left unsaid.

Instead Yuri sucks his thumb like a fucking toddler not even realizing that someone talks to him, until Mila elbows his ribs.

“He’s drunk, you have to yell at him or he won’t notice,” she chuckles and winks at Kaligazh.

Now Yuri looks over though, thumb still in his mouth and blushing hard as he realizes. There’s a ridiculous sound as he pops it out and reaches for another chicken wing just to have his hand occupied. “I’m not drunk,” he murmurs, although he probably really is, a little. He looks over to Otabek who twists a french fry in between thumb and index finger, frowning down on it.

“That’s probably your regular level by now,” Mila huffs.

The conversation makes Yuri extremely uncomfortable.

“Oh, you drink a lot?” Kaligazh asks. “I used to drink a lot too, I work in a pub, so I’m basically paid to drink.” She laughs. “You get used to it pretty quickly. This one here,” she points at Belek, “talked me out of it, actually. But I guess it’s okay with your girlfriend?”

“I’m not his girlfriend,” Mila says and Yuri adds, bitter: “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Ah, sorry,” Kaligazh hurries to say, “I jumped to conclusions I guess, I mean those are some impressive hickeys… Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” It’s really not, but Yuri rips the meat off the bone with his teeth. He resists the urge to cover the bite marks and bruises Vova left on him with his palm.

“So, you said you’re gonna leave tomorrow?” Mila changes subjects.

“Yeah,” Belek jumps in, mouth full of pancake, “we have a gig scheduled in Helsinki tomorrow so we gotta leave early.”

“It’s about five hours a drive, but we need to be there early for the soundcheck,” Kaligazh adds.

“Maybe you get some lunch this time,” Mila chuckles. Yuri can’t tell if she’s flirting with Kaligazh or Belek or both of them.

“We’ve never played so far away from home,” Belek says. “It’s really exciting.”

“You’re from Kazakhstan, right?”

“Almaty,” Kaligazh answers. “That’s in the south. We came a pretty long way. Like, literally.”

The three of them chuckle. Yuri looks up, but there’s no smile on Otabek’s face. He’s still frowning. He still makes the hairs on Yuri’s forearms stand.

“I bet you’ve seen a lot on your way,” Mila guesses.

“Yeah, we crossed all Kazakhstan. I hadn’t seen so much of it before. The landscape is pretty impressive,” Belek agrees.

Then suddenly, Otabek speaks. “There’s nothing as beautiful as the white sky over the steppe. Like the mountains against the golden sun. Like the green depth of Lake Balkhash. It makes you feel small. Insignificant. A beauty too overwhelming for the human mind to grasp.”

Yuri looks up. And finds Otabek’s eyes on him, his jaw set, his eyebrows crinkled. Somehow it feels like he addressed Yuri specifically. The others keep talking like nothing happened, but the tension tugs on his insides until he can’t stand it anymore.

“Excuse me,” he murmurs, shoving Mila aside to flee to the bathroom.

All water in the world, ice cold splashed against his prickling face could not make his heart beat less chivvied. His knuckles turn white as he clasps the cracked porcelain of the sink, the water dripping from his chin and running down his neck. He’s shivering, trying to convince himself it’s from the cold, but fails.

It’s the realization that Otabek speaks like he sings. His words are poems, always. But here, in the artificial, flickering light of the diner, his lashes are darker and his skin glows like polished bronze. He’s surreal, even more so than on stage and Yuri knows for a fact that this should be impossible. People lose their magic when they get off stage, they don’t become even more hauntingly beautiful. It’s wrong, very, very wrong.

_ A beauty too overwhelming for the human mind to grasp. _

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispers in the general direction of his mirror image. Right here he feels a little more like himself. His skin covered in ink and hand prints, Vova’s scratches, Vova’s filthy remains. Just Yuri, the cheap little faggot from Moscow who can spread his legs wider than all the other ballerinas. Here he does not have to deal with poems and thick, deft fingers on a slim mahogany neck. Not to imagine what Otabek could do with his skilled fingers on Yuri’s neck… 

He swallows a sufficient amount of water from the tap that tastes too much like chlorine to be refreshing. The bliss of being drunk has vanished and so has the senseless intoxication, that state where nothing matters and he doesn’t feel anything. Instead there’s just a certain numbness and a headache lingering in the back of his head that he sure will curse tomorrow when Lilia puts him through routines more agonizing than usual.

He doesn't want to go back. Not only outside, back to the table. He doesn't want to go back to his life. Back to training, back to school, back to Vova. He wants to stay right here, in the dirty restroom, shivering from the cold and inner turmoil, dirty and  _ Hollow _ and  _ Alone _ .  He thinks he’s heard those words in that order earlier tonight.

Otabek closes the door carefully. He’s just there, suddenly; Yuri doesn’t even try to pretend he’s not on his way to a fucking breakdown. What would it help. Now he’s here, they both are and the water is still running, still cold and his lips trembling and his nipples cherry stones under his water sprinkled shirt.

“I’m sorry,” Otabek says like black velvet. Like a tuned down E string. Yuri’s very thankful he doesn’t ask if he’s okay, because he’s not sure he can muster the strength to say “Yes”.

“Kaligazh didn’t mean to ask such intimate things,” Otabek says. “She’s too straightforward. I told her before. She didn’t mean to hurt you. She’s like a knife sometimes.”

Yuri stares at him and nods slowly. Why can’t he look away from those eyes? Why does his throat feel so dry? The water is still running but he knows no amount of water can help him.

_ Encumbered forever by desire and ambition _

_ There's a hunger still unsatisfied _

“Did you choose the song that played when you set up?” he chokes out. “Pink Floyd, High Hopes.”

“Yes.” He looks at the bite mark on Yuri’s neck. “I’m bad with words.”

Yuri almost laughs. It’s absurd. If Yuri has ever met a person who’s good with words it’s Otabek.

“But I want you to know that I am very, very angry at the person who treated you like that.”

“I’m angry at him, too.”

Otabek frowns. “I can see that. But you’re beautiful like this.”

“I’m a slut.”

Otabek shakes his head. “That’s not what I mean. That’s not what I see. It’s your eyes.”

Yuri doesn’t ask. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t want to. The way Otabek says it, the way he is here, so close, makes Yuri accept it.

“You’re leaving in the morning,” he remembers, Otabek nods.

Then he stops the water. “You smoke?”

Without a word Yuri follows him outside.

 

The van is deserted in the parking lot. There’s not a soul around at this time of the night - almost two in the morning.

They lean against the wall beside the diner’s huge paper bin where the soft wind can’t reach them and smoke.

They talk.

About music and playing live, about Yuri’s ballet and Russia. About Kazakhstan. About the things Otabek sings about. About searching for something, anything that matters. They talk about Yuri’s life. His grampa’s death. About feeling empty and about Vladimir.

“I don’t love him,” Yuri states, inhaling the smoke of his sixth cigarette. “And he doesn't love me. He just fills the void. Badly. But it’s better than nothing. Better than being…  _ hollow _ and  _ alone _ .”

“Is it though?”

Yuri stares at Otabek bewildered. Is it though? He thought so. But what if it’s not?

“I don’t know,” he finally confesses.

“I think,” Otabek rakes his fingers through his raven black hair, his eyes wandering over the parking lot, “that it’s not necessarily a bad thing to be hollow. It makes space for something. You can fill this emptiness. With something good. Something beautiful.” After a moment of silence he looks over to Yuri. “Sometimes you find yourself so full of bad things there’s no space for good things. Think about it.”

And Yuri does. The silence is deafening, but Otabek’s words echo in his head and deeper even. And then, after what feels like an eternity he feels the anger rise in his chest. Anger about how Vladimir treats him, anger about how he let it happen in the first place. His insides are scorching. 

He’s not going to put up with Vladimir’s shit anymore. He’s worth more. All those months Mila told him, told him that he’s out of Vova’s league, that he deserves better, and he knew she was right, but he didn’t feel it. He does now. He does not only not love Vladimir - he loathes him. And he will know.

“You’re right,” he says, his voice low but steady. “I’m better than this.” 

When he turns his head he sees Otabek smiling.

In this moment Yuri pushes the thought of Vladimir away to make space for something very beautiful. He leans in, lids fluttering shut.

 

Kaligazh finds Otabek with his fingers in Yuri’s hair, his lips pink and puffy from kissing, his breath hitched. 

Yuri’s blond mane is in disarray, his hands on Otabek’s broad shoulders. The black shirt shifted at some point, the lopsided collar affording sight of the rose petals and thorns inked into Otabek’s skin.

Otabek detaches his lips from Yuri’s just enough to look over to where Kaligazh grins at them.

“I came to see if you’re alright, but I guess my worry was unfounded.” She reaches into her pocket and tosses a key over. “Stay safe.” With that she turns away to head back to the diner. For a split second Yuri imagines what he’ll hear from Mila tomorrow but the thought is gone when Otabek takes him by the hand and leads him over to the van.

It takes two flicks of a wrist and the backseat unfolds into a mattress. With gentle hands Otabek manhandles Yuri onto the cotton covered foam, laying him out like an expensive doll. With the dark eyes roaming over his body Yuri once more feels exposed, but not in a bad way this time. Otabek doesn’t just look at him. There’s something in his eyes that makes Yuri feel appreciated, despite all the marks Vladimir left on him.

“I couldn’t look away,” Otabek whispers, “once I saw you. You’re probably not aware of how perfect you are. Bitter, and gorgeous, and fierce.” He kisses Yuri’s lips, then his throat, then his collar bone. “Fierce,” he breathes in between kisses, hands peeling away the clothes from Yuri’s skin, “unforgettable,” until Yuri’s bare skin glows in the dim light that comes through the panes, “your eyes.”

It’s like nothing anyone has ever done to Yuri before. He imagined Otabek’s fingers to be deft, but the way he touches him is beyond words. Yuri writhes on the sheets, moans, gasps, loses his mind. Otabek’s words are poetry, the way he looks at him is and his touches are, too. He loses count of how often Otabek makes his heart skip a beat with just his fingers. When he finally, after God knows how many dry orgasms, closes his fingers around Yuri’s throbbing erection, Yuri comes with a sob. There’s so much, painting his stomach and Otabek’s fingers white. It’s not just an orgasm, it’s purification.

Afterwards Otabek lays down next to him, holds him close, almost too close. Almost like he wants to hold the pieces that are Yuri in place, afraid that he might fall apart if he lets go. Soothing  sharp edges.  There’s no way Yuri can vocalise his gratefulness, so he lays still and rests. 

The sky turns from black to blue to a pale orange. The motion of Otabek’s fingers running through Yuri’s hair never stills.

He doesn’t want him to leave. The seconds seep through his fingers like sand. They add up to minutes, maybe more, and with every second he’s more afraid.

He’s fallen, deeply, and without seeing the ground. If there is one. It’s so scary, but it’s better than thinking of returning into Vladimir’s arm, his bed.

Still, he wishes Otabek could stay, or he could go with him. Run away with him. But he knows he can’t. Not only because Lilia will kill him, but because he will screw up as long as he’s not sure what he will be tomorrow, in a week, in a year.

“I can’t wait for you,” he murmurs into the twilight.

“I know,” Otabek says. The words rumble deep in his chest. “But I’ll remember you nevertheless. No one can take tonight away from me.”

This is the moment, Yuri thinks, the moment to tell Otabek that he loves him. If he really does or not doesn’t matter. He needs to say it. But the words won’t come out. He lies still, his throat hurting from emotions he suppresses, and eventually says: “From us.” 

 

Otabek kisses him one last time when he sun has risen and Belek and Kaligazh are in the van, ready to depart. “ _ Hollow _ ,” he says, his voice enchanting Yuri. Then: “ _ Alone _ . Do you remember what came next? The last song?”

Yuri stares at him. He can’t recall.

“You’ll remember.” Otabek let’s go of his hand with a smile. He’s gorgeous.

 

Yuri doesn’t know how many nights he has cried himself to sleep, wishing that he had said it - I love you - and wishing he hadn’t let him go. Potya is his only company, and Mila who hugged him tight when she heard he’s no going to see Vova anymore. Yuri dances until every muscle is on fire and locks himself up in his room until his eyes burn just as much from all the tears he sheds. 

“Oh,” he says into the silence of his room, when he suddenly remembers the name of the last song. His tears dry.

_ Free _ .

**Author's Note:**

> I'm kinda sorry this ended on a sad note, but it would've been unrealistic to give them a happy ending, I guess...  
> What do you think? Will Otabek come back to play one day and Yuri will be there? Will they still feel the same?


End file.
